Chapter 6
RAFE
“Raphael!” a sing-songy female voice calls out. “Raphaelll!”
On the gravel courtyard, past the high boxwood hedges, Sylvie stands next to her old sports car. She’s in all-black despite the summer heat, her eyes hidden behind a pair of giant sunglasses.
By her side are the two tall greyhounds she rarely travels without. One speckled, one gray. I always try to remember their names and I always fail.
“Sylvie,” I say, and walk out to greet her. “I wasn’t expecting you so soon.”
“Nonsense,” she says in French. “I heard you were back in Como and I set off immediately.”
She’s in her mid-fifties and wears her status as a legend in the fashion industry like an accessory.
She started designing her signature tailored dresses back in the eighties, merging French and Chinese sensibilities into something unique that’s entirely her.
She quickly became a household name in France and then the world.
And for the last eight years, she’s been the head artistic director for Armandelle. It’s the largest legacy brand in my portfolio, one of the world’s most recognized brands, and has had a complete revival under her artistic stewardship.
But lately she’s spoken about leaving.
Stretching her wings and dissolving the partnership that’s been so very lucrative for us both.
“I’m glad you came.” I bend to kiss her cheek. She smells like cigarette smoke and perfume, and my words are only half true. There’s no need for her to meet Paige.
“I have lots to talk with you about,” she says. “I’m tired of dealing with the latest business-degree lackey you assigned me. That Florian you have me talking to—bah. He doesn’t have an artistic eye, and he is too on time. Too German.”
“He’s Austrian, but yes, he has a background in finance. I’ll make sure you get a new liaison,” I say. “Someone with an artistic eye.”
“Good. You do that.” She pushes up her sunglasses, and the famous, no-nonsense Sylvie Li stare skewers me. “Now, I’ve heard the rumors about your marriage. Is it true? Tell me it’s not.”
“I have gotten married, yes.”
“Putain.” She slaps my shoulder. “Don’t tell me you did it for business, Raphael. Just to get access to that little American company. Some things are holy, and this is one of them. If you’ve married for profit, I’ll know this isn’t the place for me anymore.”
Her gaze is dramatic, her tone even more so. But the eyes on mine are heavy with disapproval.
I stand very still and lie. “It’s not just for business.”
“It’s love, then? You’ve found love? Because you know I’ve had my doubts, Rafe, about the…
business side of things. That I’ve considered leaving Maison Valmont.
I’ve been happy seeing your progress since you took over, but you have to have a heart, yes?
You have to have passion. That’s the only way you can understand your designers and artists.
” She taps across her breastbone, her own wedding ring glinting in the sunlight.
“No creative would marry for anything but love.”
Shit.
She’s always driven a hard bargain and been the most challenging—and fun—of any designer I’ve worked with. But I didn’t anticipate this angle. She has plenty of sway with others, too. Her opinion matters.
I’ve been hastier with Paige than I usually am.
“We are different,” I say. “I’m not the artistic soul that you are. You’re one of a kind, Sylvie.”
“Flattery,” she says, but her lips curl. “It won’t work, but I love it so when you try this approach. Please continue.”
“It’s the truth, and it’s what makes our partnership work. I know my marriage happened quickly. It’s not like me, I’ll admit.”
“Why wasn’t I invited? Why was it such a small, courthouse thing? You, Raphael Montclair, getting married behind closed doors?” She shakes her head. “Bah, I don’t believe it.”
“It’s one of the few impulsive things I’ve done in my life,” I say, because she knows me too well. The best lies are threaded with truth.
Sylvie’s gaze shifts to something behind me, and her smile widens. “Ah. Is this her, then?” She switches over to faintly French-accented English. “Hello, there. You are Rafe’s new wife?”
Paige accepts Sylvie’s hand with a smile she never gives me. Flight attendants, lawyers, strangers. They all get it.
“Yes. It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Paige says. “I’m sorry, I feel very underdressed.”
Sylvie laughs. “Everyone is underdressed next to me. It’s okay. I’m used to it.”
“I bet. Do you live close by?”
“Yes. I have a house across the lake, closer to Bellagio.” She reaches for Paige’s left hand. Her nails are short and bare next to Paige’s red ones.
“There’s no ring.” Sylvie looks over to me, still holding Paige’s left hand in hers. “Raphael. Come now.”
She’s always had a flair for the dramatic. So many of the head designers I deal with on a day-to-day basis do. I give them as much freedom as possible. The best creations rarely happen when they feel pressured.
“Oh, I do. I just took it off, to get resized,” Paige says.
I nod back to the villa. “We have a jeweler visiting today from Switzerland, and Paige just picked out her ring.”
“Very good.” Sylvie’s eyes remain on Paige, and she sees far too much. I hadn’t counted on one of my most important business relations turning up before noon.
Unannounced.
“This girl deserves a nice ring, yes? Two, three, even four, maybe. You look like you’d suit gold,” she tells Paige. “I hope you didn’t choose a small ring, chérie. I hate modesty, and you’re too pretty for it.”
That makes me chuckle. Paige’s eyes flash to mine, and then back to Sylvie. “Well, I’m leaning toward something medium-sized. The ring I chose is a sapphire.”
“Medium. Yes. That might do.” Sylvie releases Paige’s hands. “Rafe just told me that you two are deeply in love.”
I said no such thing.
But Paige laughs like it’s a joke and looks up at me with a sparkle in her eyes. They’re deep brown, I realize. Chocolate-colored. It’s a contrast against the golden-wheat color of her hair.
Paige opens her mouth, but I reach over and take her hand to shut her up. I lace our fingers together. Her palm is warm and dry against mine, and she blinks up at me like I’ve lost my mind.
Here’s hoping Sylvie sees that as adoration.
“It was quick,” I admit to them both. “Paige is helping me be more… spontaneous.”
“Love can do that,” Sylvie says. “My wife made me try jet skiing last week in Cannes. It was horrible and I’m never doing it again. You’ll meet her,” she tells Paige. “Soon. Because I want the full story of how you two met. Every single detail, okay?”
Paige nods, and I can tell she’s a bit dazed. It’s hard not to be the first time one meets Sylvie Li.
“Every detail, Sylvie?” I ask with a smile.
“Don’t be a prude. It doesn’t suit you.” She bends to run a hand along the back of her dappled greyhound. The dog has been standing still in the breeze, barely acknowledging our existence, a complete contrast from the barking from earlier. Colette, maybe. Or is it Clarice?
“Tomorrow night,” Sylvie says. “Come to mine for dinner across the lake. My wife will be back, and I’m having some guests over.” She lowers her sunglasses. “I have more questions, and there will be drinks,” she says, like that’s all the incentive we need.
My hand tightens around Paige’s. “We’d be delighted to.”
“I have questions, too,” Paige says. “You’re a legend.”
“And you’re just as much of a flatterer as your new husband,” Sylvie says, and opens the door to her Ferrari to let the dogs back in. “But I’m finding it more charming coming from you, chérie. That’s a good start.”